


How to be silent in five fallen cities

by redsnake05



Category: Echo Bazaar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:18:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Quiet Deviless plans her final abstraction and pens her memoir of truth, lies, bodies and souls, and the tale of Five Fallen Cities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to be silent in five fallen cities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabbit/gifts).



> I hope this is sufficiently delicious and abstracted. Thanks to my beta reader, T, for all her help.

Even devils must be born and grow. They start their life as does most everything else: eyes closed tight, small and helpless. Some say that's why abstractions hold such pride of place in the arsenal of devilry, since one must go under the knife the same way. Of course, like most things that people say, it's only partly true, and then not in the way they think.

>>>>

I remember when the Masters first came. I was on the Sumerian plains when the Bats stole Ur, Ur of the Chaldeans on the south bank of the Euphrates River. It was luck that I was there, if luck you call it.  
The city had been there a long time, and it was mighty as cities were reckoned in those days, though growing old and falling into decay as the Euphrates moved its channel and droughts ate away at the fertile land. The Persians threatened Babylon, not far away, and indeed, it fell short years later. In truth, Ur was not at the height of its powers. I believe now that the Masters prefer their stolen cities that way. All are old and fading; the Masters give them the Bazaar, for a little while.

I followed Ur down into the earth as the bats dragged it into the chasm that opened up, listening to the lamentations of the people as the blue sky disappeared and the twilight came. The chasm above closed over, not the whole way. Enough sun filtered through to assist the candles and oil lamps that the people lit, weeping and cursing as they did. I walked through the streets, now twisted into unfamiliar patterns, until I came to the Bazaar.  
As old as Babylon may have been before its fall, as old as Ur undoubtedly was before it was stolen, I am older still, and I am still here when Babylon and Ur are abstractions only, used as metaphors in the service of oratory. Yet the Bazaar was new to me, and when it first appeared, I felt excitement such as I had not felt for hundreds of years.

>>>>

The Quiet Deviless pours the tea herself and passes the cups. Her hands have warmed them enough to compensate for the chill of the day, and the fire burns merrily in the hearth. She offers biscuits; shortbread mostly, mixed with ginger ones and a few made with candied mushrooms. She calls me Delicious Friend, her voice so quiet I have to strain to hear it, and her smile my reward.

I take a ginger biscuit and cradle my cup of tea carefully. It is my first visit to tea; it will never do to be clumsy and drop anything. The Quiet Deviless's yellow eyes watch us all closely; she is swift to notice if anyone's cup or plate was empty. Around the room, she has a few trinkets on display and I look at them as I nibble on my mouthful of baking. Some clay tablets, a small, stepped pyramid shape, some beads. It is intriguing, but I cannot get up and wander around to look more closely.

I momentarily forget about my biscuit as the Bombastic Lawyer starts a discussion about Velocipedes and the decay of modern youth. As I'd heard it would be, as at all the Quiet Deviless's tea parties, debate is heated. She sits to one side, eyes shining, and drinks it all in.

>>>>

I should introduce myself, before I start telling you about the Cities. I haven't told anyone my right name for many long centuries. Indeed, I don't know if there are any above the ground who still know it. Certainly, none of the Devils of this latest Fallen City do; here I am known as the Quiet Deviless. But more of that later.

Still, I am setting down my memories truthfully, so I will say my name this one last time: I was once called Aurora, The Dawn, for I was the glow of the sky when the Morning Star waited for the coming of the Sun. Together, Phosphorus, the Morning Star – you may know him as Lucifer – and I woke up the world.  
Those were long days, and the world was wide and beautiful, yet stern, sometimes cruel. We wandered long and freely amongst the people and were both seen and unseen.

Of course, you will be wondering where God comes into this. Of all the tiresome things about the Fifth City, it's Jehovah's successful myth-making that most wearies me. I must digress a little.

In the days before the First City fell, the world was wide and the people scattered. We were luckier, being able to fly through the air and being fortunate enough to always be warm. Like other living things, my kindred had changed over time. In those days, I walked with djinns and nymphs, earth-spirits and gods. Oh, how I remember Ishtar and her beauty, the hot shift of a djinn's body in my arms, the swiftness of the lesser spirits of the garden. These are all my kindred: the spirits of subtle fire, of aether, of earth and air and water. I am one of them, not a devil. That is the lying name that Jehovah gave us.

About our own origins, we have several tales, which I will not share here. It's enough to say that, among us, there are always some who are older, stronger, luckier. Jehovah is one such. Lucifer and I counted ourselves his friends, once, until he became filled with hubris and wished to order everything as he liked. Indeed, many of my kindred believed him: they are with him still and you call them Angels. They are no different to me, really, except in their loyalties.

Lucifer and I left Jehovah, and many came with us. Jehovah called it The Fall, and perhaps it was, or has come to be, to him. Since then, Lucifer has burned ever hotter; he seldom comes forth from the Places of Fire now and I hear tell that he cannot maintain a corporeal body. The bad blood between Jehovah and Lucifer was strongest, which is why, I suppose, Jehovah named him Satan and set him up as Chief Rival, and all of us as Bringers of Evil, as Devils, the name people know us by in the Fifth City. Do we bring evil? I don't know. Tell me what evil is, first.

>>>>

The Quiet Deviless is expressive. It would be a mistake to assume her lacking in communication, just because she so seldom speaks. After her tea party, we met again often. The Affectionate Devil asked me to be her escort: an honour I had not hoped for.

High emotion seems to move the Quiet Deviless deeply. We sit together at a concert, watching the candlelight flicker on the fingers of the musicians as they coax melodies from their instruments. Next to me, she trembles slightly as they bow their heads in concentration, as they blend skill and passion to make music that is heavenly.

Afterwards, I describe the music as such to her, only realising as I say it that heavenly music might not be the best description to offer to a devil. She smiles only and presses my hand, seeming to understand the heart of what I was saying instead of focusing on the words.  
When I get home, my hand is reddened still from her fingers.

>>>>

The First City was a delight to me. I built a home there, for myself and others of my kindred. I raised it myself, working with local smiths and builders to shape it into a ziggurat, inlaid with brass. I gave it no name, but the Masters called it the Brass Embassy. They laughed as they said it, as softly as they did everything else. Perhaps, in those days, it was an embassy, for nowhere else in the wide world had I seen my people live as close to humans as we did there.

I lived there for many long years, and such of my kindred as wished to live with me did likewise. In those days, trade was not as formal as it is now. We were wilder, freer, and the world was wider. We harvested souls here and there, just as many as we needed. We received a few goods from the Places of Fire, some packaged by Lucifer himself, and we traded these as we could. It was good, to live there under the sands, in the twisted streets of the city that had once been Ur. There were no bureaucrats, no taxes, no forms, no contracts. I was not made to be in business. I am the Dawn; it is my job to wake up the world. But I get ahead of myself.

The Bazaar tarried under the Babylonian plains for nine hundred years or so, far longer than it has stayed anywhere else. I think, now, that the Masters wanted to make themselves secure. They needed to be sure of what they were doing. I think, too, that the Bazaar liked it there.

>>>>

Fascination is the stock in trade of devils. All know this, in the Fifth City and elsewhere. I know it, but that knowledge doesn't make me more resistant to this particular deviless's wiles.

The Quiet Deviless sent shoes of asbestos. They fit perfectly, and I can already foresee how good it will feel to dance with her in the warmth of the main ballroom. There is little doubt that I will go. I will dance with her and with others too, perhaps, and I will watch her face as she absorbs the vivacity and chatter of the room.

>>>>

The Second City was a mistake. How the Bazaar chose Alexandria, I will never know. I think the Bats miscalculated; they should have gone for Aksum instead. Perhaps even Djenné, or a city further south. There were some few to choose from.

I busied myself with raising the Brass Embassy of the Second City, since only the Bazaar moved, not the First City itself. I've heard that the ruins are buried under each successive city, which is a nice theory and could even be true. I didn't hear much about why the choice of city was a mistake at first. There were a few murmurs of discontent from the Masters, a few jokes from the builders.

It was the crocodiles, of course. They always had been disrespectful beasts, and their god was also. Some joked that it was in the Second City that Mr Eaten got his name, his full one being Mr Almost Eaten. A joke, and not one to make to the face of any Master.  
The Bazaar was unhappy; even the Bats looked despondent and chased insects without their usual verve. The Masters gathered their hoods about their faces and put their prices up.

Still, the people of Alexandria, now the Second City, were a goodly mixture of the brave, the learned and the strong. They clung to their worship and the gods still moved amongst them. I made friends with many, delighting in the strength of their enthusiasms and passions. Some had souls that were clear and bright, full of life, and a few of those surrendered them to me. A soul is a beautiful thing, and never more so than when persuaded out of a willing victim. To see the soul coaxed out, to hold it in one's warm hands and drink in the beauty and potential that has just been given: there is nothing like it in any of the worlds.

>>>>

The Quiet Deviless is intriguing, beyond the measure of other devils. Her face is as young as all the others here; but there is something about her that tells you she has seen much. How much? I don't know.

I've asked her about her past, and how long she'd lived in the Fallen Cities. She didn't reply, of course, merely smiling and diverting my attention elsewhere.  
But it nags at me, the thought that she is different to these other devils. That she's older, perhaps, that she's seen more and done more. I wish to know these things. I want to know everything about her, but she draws a veil over her past without even trying.

>>>>

The Third City was lush. Once called Hopelchén, the bats made no mistake in this theft. Like the first two cities, this one was in the twilight, not the dark, and I loved it. The greenery died and the parrots didn't like the change, but the people were bold and proud. They took to the world of the twilight with the same strength as they showed in all else.

The Third City was a revelation. I tasted chocolate and found it delicious. The spicy bite of pepper on my tongue was heat beyond my experience of food, so hot I thought it might have been taken from the Land of Fire itself. I still have a skyglass knife, black and as sharp as the day it was gifted to me, as sharp as the eyes of the woman who gifted it. She called it obsidian, and said it was made of rocks of fire. Indeed, the entire city was hot and full of keen edges.

Her soul was sharp-edged too, as clear as the skyglass. When I abstracted it, it came into my hands whole, so full it could almost have passed for one of the lesser of my kindred.

I've heard tell that people in the Fifth City believe that we keep souls in jars, and ship them off to Hell, presumably to be tormented. We are devils, after all; what else could we want with them? I cannot answer for what some of my kindred may or may not do to the souls they abstract; I can only speak for myself.

Abstraction is the process whereby ideas are distanced from objects. It's a simple thought, one that many of your philosophers, and mine, have toyed with and refined over the centuries. Some build elaborate castles in the air, based on a single idea, while some spend their whole lives chasing the boundary between abstract and concrete.

But I am interested in human souls as well as human thoughts. When one says to me, "I feel happy," I can listen to the voice and comprehend the meaning, with happiness as an abstraction in itself. The communication depends on our shared understanding of what it is to be happy. A soul, though, communicates with me directly. I can feel it, humming away inside that insubstantial human body. It's an orchestra all on its own, or a kaleidoscope, or a vial of fresh perfume. It speaks to me, more clearly than any voice, more directly, and I want it.

I don't want human words. They are faded, washed out approximations of what the soul truly feels. I want human souls, to keep them forever close to me, in communion with myself. I want to glory in a soul that is full of life, bask in its warmth, its facets, its colours and shapes and subtle, shifting patterns.

Some of my kindred tell humans that their soul is a burden. Indeed, in some ways it is. I do not lie: my reasons for wanting a soul are purely selfish. It is beautiful, and I want to possess it.

>>>>

My heart beats loudly in my breast as I walk up the stairs behind the Quiet Deviless's demure maidservant. She knocks on the door and I enter the boudoir at the soft signal to enter. The room is small and mostly shadowy; only the mirror and the table in front of it are well lit. Indeed, many candles burn there, throwing her face into strong relief while leaving the rest of the room to the imagination. It's furnished in green, though, and surely those are parrots on the wallpaper? It's an unusual choice for a lady's room, but it suits her.

A gesture and a smile invite me to a seat pulled close to hers at the dressing table. I sit and watch, feeling no need to talk as she slowly brushes her hair, braids it and pins it expertly. Watching her work is intimate; it should be dangerous to be thus alone with a devil. We are told constantly of their lusts, yet all I feel is the urge to give myself up to the Quiet Deviless, and let her have me.

>>>>

We never speak of the last days of the Third City. Something festered, deep under the city, and eventually the Bats stole us away. From the heat of the sun we retreated. The Fourth City, called Karakorum before the Bats took it, was too cold for things to fester there.  
The Fourth City, too, was buried deeper than the earlier three. It was colder, darker, and full of both chilly sobriety and the lesser desire to combat the icy weather with gaiety and togetherness. The Brass Embassy spent a fortune on candles, although we are lucky to be naturally gifted with heat.

The Bazaar seemed to age quickly there. From a carefree, careless trading post, it became labyrinthine with regulations and protocols. The Masters prohibited this and that, set boundaries on what one could and couldn't do, imposed taxes and declarations and all manner of bureaucratic obstacles. Those of my kindred who came to join the Brass Embassy, were less wild too. It seemed that the Places of Fire were breeding young ones with a taste for business, not poetry or adventure. I wondered what Lucifer thought of it. I missed him, and the wild world that we had once roamed over.

>>>>

I await all invitations from the Quiet Deviless. Since my visit to her boudoir, I have been even more eager. This party is different to the others I have attended, though. The people here are not looking for diversion or debate. Some want respite from a burden that seems too heavy, some are curious, a few possibly reckless. Some have been persuaded.

I hear people speak of being relieved of their soul, or the honour of surrendering it. I understand that, the desire to submit to another's will, to give up to them what they ask for and seek so fiercely. The prospect of submission can be a seductive thing, and this must be the most intimate of submissions, surpassing that found in the bedchamber.

I don't want to give my soul into the keeping of another. Yet when the Quiet Deviless comes up to me, her fingers hot on the inside of my arm, and whispers that she wishes to abstract my soul, then I am still tempted, and for a wild moment almost say yes.

I do not know what I will do when she makes me a serious offer.

>>>>

The problem with the Fifth City, formerly London, is that it's all too easy to be a devil here. The people here see devils as fops, as rakes and jades and tragicomic actors. It's not like the old days, when people lived closer to the real world, the one that could not be explained with Science or Art or Politics. We are both reviled, as the evildoers of Jehovah's grand vision, and also courted for the danger. Poor fools, these people. We are not Jehovah's devils, though that name sticks to us closely and I am known now as the Quiet Deviless.

I nearly forget that I am Aurora, that I have lived longer than this City, longer than the Bazaar. Indeed, I have lived nearly as long as Jehovah, who taught these people to hate and fear us. There is more to me than what I have here, but I have nearly forgotten it.

I barely recognise the Bazaar. The Masters are no longer seen. The Brass Embassy is a bureaucracy with rather odd fetishes about filing. I am a deviless, one of many who throng the city. I am faceless and nameless. Indeed, I have no desire to tell anyone my right name, and less confidence that they would recognise it.

I yearn to leave here. I will leave here. I have not seen the Places of Fire for thousands of years. The people here tell me of wonders to be found on the surface. I have forgotten how wide the world is. I need to remember. I need to wake up, myself.

But still, even in all this discontent, sometimes I meet a human whose soul is a thing of beauty. There is one, now, who keeps me here. She has a smooth tongue and her words are persuasive. She is observant. She never lets a little thing like ownership get in the way of her possession of something she fancies. She knows the best way to cut a man's throat. These are all virtues, combining to make a soul that calls out to me. I want this soul, and when I have it, I will leave.

Soon, I will make her an offer. I will stop at nothing to have her soul in my hands, to delight in it, to have it as my communion. She will fall, just like five great cities, and then we will never have need of words again.


End file.
